


In Time We'll Tear Them Down Again

by holdmyhandmydear



Category: Alan Wake (Video Game)
Genre: Implied Non-Con, Implied Torture, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:03:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdmyhandmydear/pseuds/holdmyhandmydear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of The Writer, Alan Wake and Mr. Scratch have found in each other. In a dingy motel room Mr. Scratch taunts Alan about Alice Wake and what he wasn't able to prevent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Time We'll Tear Them Down Again

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before Alan Wake's American Nightmare was released. So the personality of Mr. Scratch doesn't match up with the current canon. [He was written with what information we could gather at the time.](http://mr-scratch.tumblr.com/post/17466505829/hej-hej-anon-people-actually-read-this-thing)

Mr. Scratch paused and studied the bloodied writer. His limbs were all harsh angles as he lay sprawled next to the old fashioned heating element most cheap motel rooms seemed to sport. Alan's clothes looked rumpled and slept in- which they, of course, had been. His wrists bore painful looking welts where he had struggled against the steel 'cuffs that trapped him next to his new friend the heater.

Scratch crouched down on the worn, rarely vacuumed carpet and locked eyes with his hostage. The anger he found there was palpable but it didn't stop Scratch from reaching out and brushing his fingers along Alan's cheek. There was no hidden malice there- this was pure indulgence on his part. 

"I'm delighted I was born to look like you." A statement that begat more questions then held answers for the subdued novelist who tersely responded by jerking his head away hard enough that it connected with the smoke stained wall. Alan grit his teeth and hissed several profanities in a morbid but rather creative fashion.

Scratch let his hand drift lazily up and through Alan's hair before he curled his fingers around the dirty strands and jerked his head back to expose the thrumming pulse in the bound man's throat. Alan hadn't had a chance to shave in days and Scratch observed the stubble grew unevenly across his jaw in asymmetrical patches. He supposed he must look the same at that angle.

"I was simply offering up a compliment," Mr. Scratch chided softly. He couldn't explain why but the not so subtle rejection struck a chord in him. A sudden thought arose and presented itself as a suitable punishment for the snub. He released the tight grip he had tangled in Alan's hair and instead smiled lovingly down at him. 

“She said my name once. None of that old Scratch business either. My actual name.” No need to be more specific then that; they both knew who he spoke of. His voice became more contemplative as he relived the moment in his head. ”She didn’t mean to, but one night it was there and she couldn’t help herself.”

Scratch's smile grew wider and more manic as he recalled the sweet broken sound. He leveled his gaze and was pleased to see the fear he inspired in Alan Wake: famed writer, charming rogue and loving husband. Such a take-no-bullshit kind of man until his wife was involved.

Alan had asked him his name once- back when they had first started this long suffering waltz. He had just shaken his head and told him to call him Mr. Scratch. While he genuinely enjoyed the archaic connotations with Lucifer it evoked, it wasn't the only reason. His name was nigh impossible for these fragile creatures to pronounce. A cacophony of scratching and wails formed in bleeding throats. He had been courteous enough to explain that then and could see how the explanation weighed heavily in the writer's mind now.

Scratch had hoped for more of a reaction from his captive and was disappointed. His brow furrowed imperceptibly before he thoughtfully added, "It was the night I first took up the blades."

Alan's eyes grew too wide for his face and his cracked lips shaped his wife's name in a near silent plea. That had been the exact effect Scratch had hoped for all along. He could remember the heady weight of the curved trailing-point dagger clutched in his left hand. Too delicate for any real damage really. The gleaming edges were almost impossibly fine and thin. It was a knife designed to inflict plain and it was by far his favourite.

"It was your name she screamed at first," Mr. Scratch intoned acerbically as he recalled the fury inducing jealously it had inspired in himself. He sucked air noisily in through his teeth and let his words hang between them.

He leant forward until he was sure the restrained man could feel his every word punctuated with his hot breath before he spoke again. "But in the end when she realized you weren't coming to save her? It was my name she was left with. Whether she knew it or not."

Alan shifted under him and before Scratch could react he felt the writer's worn shoe skid along his thigh and tag his left hip- effectively knocking him off balance. The surprised man threw his arms backwards in a futile attempt to catch himself and suffered a painfully twisted thumb for the effort. He could see the smug cast to Alan's face from his new vantage point.

Scratch lay motionless on the filthy carpet for a long minute before a crazed laugh erupted from his throat. The harsh sound engulfed the room like a flame before it petered out and Scratch fluidly propelled himself to his feet. He was breathless as he caught hold of a threadbare throw hung over an uneven wooden chair. He tossed it carelessly to the writer who continued to glower up at him. He shrugged, not particularly caring if Alan would deign to use the small comfort to help pass the rest of the night.

Falling back onto the grubby mattress Mr. Scratch threw an arm over his eyes to block out what little light existed in the gloomy room. He'd had his fun and for now his boredom was satiated.

He wasn't surprised when he heard the raspy voice of the writer in the cramped space they shared.

"Fuck you."

A small ritual they had developed and perfected over the past week. Simple words leaden with more significance every night they were repeated.

"Goodnight, Mr. Wake. Sweet dreams."


End file.
